Pure Imagination
by CharmsLithe
Summary: What we see will defy explanation. If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it.  Slightly AU, progressively more and more angsty.
1. John Watson is real

"But where did John go?" Sherlock says, on the edge of tears.

Mycroft takes Sherlock's hands in his, bending over slightly. He runs his thumbs over the back of Sherlock's small hands. Mycroft wishes he knew how to comfort his brother.

Sherlock's curly black hair is tousled and long. It hangs in his wide bright blue eyes, a few strands reach the tops of his cheeks. His eyes are wet with the tears that have not yet fallen past his eyelashes. His lips quiver slightly. He has complete and utter faith in Mycroft.

"Well, Sheryl, John never really existed," he says gravely.

"Stop it," Sherlock pushes him away. "Stop it, you're lying like everyone else," he shouts, folding his arms across his thin chest. His voice is high and volatile. His face is flushed. He quivers. "I thought you were different, Mycroft," Sherlock shouts.

"Now, Sherlock," Mycroft begins.

"I don't care, all you ever do is _lie,_ Mycroft." Sherlock wails. His small feet slap against the wood of the hall as he runs back to his bedroom. He throws open the door with a great deal of strength, he takes a moment to glare at his brother once more. At eight years old, his eyes can penetrate his brother's sternum. He slams the door and it rings with finality.

_John Watson is real. John Watson is real._

He covers his face, his hands covered in tears after a few moments. He slides down the door.

_John is real. John is real._

Sherlock repeats the words to himself, his voice high and broken as he does.

"John Watson is real, John Watson is real," he chants.

_John Watson is real. He likes green things. He's good at football. The boys like him. He knows what to say. The girls want to hold his hand. He has skin like the sun. John Watson is real. He can climb trees. He likes my collection of butterflies. He loves bees. John Watson is real. He has blue eyes and sandy hair. He has a stupid nose and ridiculous ears. Sometimes he holds my hand. John Watson is real. John Watson is real._

Sherlock could not imagine a world void of John Watson. It wasn't his fault that no one else can see him. Does that negate existence? Sherlock can not see the atoms that make up his desk, but he knows they exist.


	2. John never knows anything

"I'm glad you're back," Sherlock says, jumping up from his bed. He opens his arms and embraces John. The sight of John makes Sherlock's guts feel warmer. John is always nice to him, but John never speaks to him. Sherlock wishes he could hear his voice, but John always sits and listens. He takes to the edge of Sherlock's bed.

John is quite a few years older than Sherlock, thirteen or fourteen. His growth spurt has occurred recently, due to this he is a few inches above Sherlock. Sherlock wishes to be taller. John is already stronger than him, it seems quite mean for him to be taller as well. Sherlock supposes he would grow to be a good height, as his brother and father were both average in that respect.

"Why can no one else see you?" Sherlock asks, leaning closer to John. He just smiles in return. _John never knows anything_. Sherlock pouts. "But if they could see you they wouldn't think I am crazy. The boys at school want to meet you, but I am worried they won't be able to see you," Sherlock says.

Sherlock stands, spins, and falls to his knees. "I drew some pictures of you while you were gone, do you want to see them?" John crosses his legs, sliding them beneath him and nodding. "This one isn't that good," he hands John an image sketched in pencil on a notebook page; it is surprisingly accurate. John's eyes are closed. John smiles quite broadly at the image. His approval is obvious. Sherlock's heart races.

"But this one, I worked much harder. Do you remember which day it was?" he places the image beside John. He has sketched over it with a coal pencil, his small hands smudged the coal slightly around the edges of John's hair. The drawing is quite extraordinary, especially for a eight year old boy. John's eyes are opened in this drawing, shaded to be bright. His coarse bright hair sticks up oddly, as though he'd been fidgeting with it. John's checkered shirt is unbuttoned at his throat. His broad jaw casts a shadow on his neck at the angle at which he holds his head. His cheeks are bright with youth, and his odd large ears accentuate this.

"Do you like them?" Sherlock asks, sitting beside John, lying the drawings beside each other on the bed. John nods. "I missed you, you really mustn't leave like that," Sherlock complains. John frowns, twisting his lips. "You don't really have to go, do you?" Sherlock asks, but John makes it clear that he does. They sit for a long while in total silence.

Sherlock jumps to stand, grabbing John's wrist. His small hand can't manage to wrap around it completely. Sherlock releases him and bounces on his heels. He speaks as they make their ways through the halls of Sherlock's house.

"We're supposed to be watching Kenneth, he's been stealing things from the store. I figured it out while you were gone, but I wanted to catch him to prove it," Sherlock nods, leading John through the back door of his house. He gets onto his bike and John stands on the spokes.


	3. Mud's Girls

"I don't care," Sherlock says.

"Sherlock, mummy will be very upset," Mycroft says sternly. he grabs his brother's arm and pulls him up. "You don't turn twelve every day," he says, dragging a writhing Sherlock from the room.

Sherlock has grown to be surprisingly slight, his face narrow and handsome. His eyes are a bright sparkling blue, much like his mother's. His lips took on an unusual shape, slightly like that of his father's. He is somehow similar to each parent, while being clearly separate from them.

He slips from his brother's grasp with some effort, as he is dragged down the hall. He flails back to his bedroom, but is quickly caught by Mycroft who throws him easily over his shoulder.

"John!" Sherlock cries, writhing in his brother's grip. His arms flail ridiculously to grasp at John, but he falls back, leaning against the wall and watching Sherlock be carried away. Sherlock kicks Mycroft's soft stomach, but he is merely hiked higher on his shoulder.

Sherlock is thrown into a chair, held there by his brother's gaze. His mother smiles, delighted by his presence. Sherlock attempts what is apparently called a 'brave face'.

He is given cake and a microscope. His family fawns. It is a long while before John comes to the table. His family glares and an uncomfortable silence takes them over as Sherlock requests a seat for John. Sherlock is quiet and calm. He learned from them how to pretend nothing was wrong.

_I know this isn't what it's like to be loved. _  
><em>If they loved me they would see him. <em>  
><em>They'd know he was real. <em>  
><em>Why don't they love me any more? <em>  
><em>It's not my fault they can't see him. <em>  
><em>It's not my fault.<em>

_He is real._  
><em>John Watson is real<em>.

Contempt is obvious upon his face. He aches to leave the table.

John touches Sherlock's hand gently and smiles. He crosses his legs and intertwines his hands, watching Sherlock's family as they converse violently about the differences between Plato and Aristotle. Sherlock doesn't listen, he doesn't find it important. He watches John instead.

* * *

><p>"John," Sherlock says as the re-enters his room. John closes the door behind him and cocks an eyebrow as Sherlock takes to sit on the edge of his bed. His legs still swing, slightly above the floor.<p>

Sherlock is much taller than he was, though still shorter than John by quite a lot. John had only grown to be 5"8' (at best), which left quite a deal of promise that Sherlock would indeed grow taller after having hit puberty. John is a bit scruffy now, his cheeks have mostly lost the softness of youth. He is something like sixteen or seventeen, although Sherlock had not concerned himself with it.

John approaches Sherlock, sitting beside him.

"Do you remember the episode 'Mud's Girls'?" Sherlock asks hesitantly. John nods.

"Well, if you recall," his eyes and John's meet, "Spock isn't really…he doesn't like the girls in the same way that the other men on the ship are. He's not really attracted to them," Sherlock says hesitantly, cracking his knuckles.

"I think, I think that I don't," Sherlock begins to pick at his nails, but John places his hand on top of Sherlock's. "I think that I don't like girls," Sherlock smiles, "Like the other boys, like you, do," he says.

John touches his back gently, sliding his arms across Sherlock's shoulders. They embrace for a long moment before separating.

"There's a new episode of The New Generation is on tonight," Sherlock pipes up.


	4. Kenneth is naughty

Sherlock ducks under the counter as he watches Kenneth come in. John kneels beside Sherlock, watching as Sherlock was. Sherlock's stare is intense upon the boy as he looks through the shelves. He is doing everything to raise suspicion.

He stalks down one aisle, perfectly within Sherlock's sight from his vantage point. He gives a cursory look to either side before snatching various candies and sliding them into the pockets of his puffy jacket. He clears his throat loudly and begins to head for the door.

Sherlock's heart beat increases as he leaps from his hiding point and is upon Kenneth like a cat. He grabs him before he is allowed to leave.

"Mrs. Wordsworth, I found him," Sherlock calls, forcing Kenneth to take off his jacket. The middle aged blond woman bounces on in, tutting at Kenneth. Kenneth whines, trying to leave but held in place by Sherlock.

"Now I'm sorry, Kenneth, but you won't be allowed to return here for quite some time," Kenneth is red. Sherlock holds up his coat and hands it to Mrs. Wordsworth. Sherlock peps as the boy is scolded. He has done well. He is right. "Here you are, Sherlock," she says, reaching into one of the pockets of the jacket and pulling out a candy bar. Sherlock shakes his head.

"No, thank you," he says with a bright smile.

"Come on, John," he says as John perks. Mrs. Wordsworth tuts slightly before realizing that Sherlock can hear. He frowns momentarily before regaining composure. It was not an unusual reaction. People are often quite rude about John.

_It's not my fault you're too stupid to see John._

He leaves the shop, trying not to slam the door in a fuss after holding it for John. He feels quite like crying.

_John Watson is real._

* * *

><p>Sherlock puts down his violin and sits cross legged before John.<p>

"Why can't you speak?" Sherlock complains, leaning forward.

John smiles vaguely. John presses Sherlock's nose, and Sherlock shrinks back.

"Do you want to play Star Trek?" Sherlock asks and John nods. "I'll be Spock and you can be Kirk," Sherlock says as he stands.

John nods, clearly aware already. Sherlock grabs his Spock ears from the drawer of his desk and sliding them on. He pulls out the chair and John sits in it.


	5. I know it's over

_(a/n: I should warn you that we're going to be dealing a lot with suicide in this chapter. I'd have preferred to not give that away, but a warning was in order.)_

"To be, or not to be," Sherlock starts, "That is the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them. To die- to sleep- no more," Sherlock's eyes meet John's. He stands from the stump upon which he had sat, sliding one hand into the pocket of his black jeans. "And by a sleep we say to end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to," Sherlock strokes the page slowly, spinning in a circle momentarily. "Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die- to sleep," he pauses, "To sleep perchance to dream- aye, there's the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause," Sherlock closes the book. He places it on the tree stump and takes in a long moments silence.

The wind is rustling the leaves around him. John presses his back to the tree, watching Sherlock intently. Sherlock turns his lips inward and sucks on them slightly.

"When will you leave?" Sherlock says, looking directly into John's eyes. He slides his hands into his pockets. He frowns.

"They-they all," he clears his throat, "say you aren't real," he says.

"Do you- I know I should have told you," he whimpers, placing a hand over his face, "What the fuck does it matter? You're not real," he swallows.

"Last week, those boys," he shakes his head, "Well, they beat the fuck out of me, do you remember?" Sherlock says.

"I know you don't," he sucks his cheeks, "You can't _remember_ anything." he turns his back and pulls his hair.

He doubles over to shout, "Just go," he covers his face. "Leave me alone," he covers his mouth. "I want you out of my life," he says with some finality as he walks away. John does not follow.

* * *

><p>It has been weeks since John has left.<p>

Sherlock has never felt so lonesome in his entire life.

He reads without the sounds of John.

_The imaginary sounds of John._

He works without John's stare.

_John's fake fucking state._

He lives without John.

_But John Watson never existed._

_John Watson will never exist._

_John Watson will never exist._

_John Watson has never existed._

His half-empty bunk bed is a reminder of John's absence.

_Not to be._

_Not to be._

His chest is empty. His breath ebbs and flows without his consideration. His body shivers and quirks. He wants none of this.

He has read through all of his books, most of them twice. They are his only salvation. Now they are patrons of his boredom and loneliness. He has considered burning them; he won't need them any longer. They have grown to become something like his family. His real family seems to show little concern for him. Mycroft is at university, although Sherlock didn't want him around anyway. Mycroft doesn't care. John always cared. John worried for him. But John isn't real.

Sherlock wants someone to worry for him. He wants someone to care, but no one does and no one ever will. Why would they? Sherlock has never cared for anyone but himself, and John. But that doesn't matter. John was only a part of Sherlock. John is only a part of Sherlock. But he won't return. Sherlock can't make him return.

He presses the CD into the stereo and lies in the top bunk.

As the song begins, he checks to make sure his door is locked. It is.

He pulls opened the drawer of his dresser to find the bottles of pills that he has saved over the years. Three bottles of antipsychotics and antidepressants would get the job done quickly and painlessly.

His heart pulses with the sound. He lies still.

John was his protector. Where is he now? He is not protecting him anymore.

_Because he isn't real_.

"_Has the world changed or have I changed_?"

Sherlock, pills in hand, climbs into the top bunk. He lies flat, swallowing the contents of two of the bottles. He stops to gag only once as the unlubricated pills fail to fall down his throat. It's a familiar enough sensation, and Sherlock is mildly surprised by this. It should take the remainder of this song and the next for the pills to take effect. He scratches the wood of his bed, desperate for the sensations to begin. His brain has been so wrecked by these drugs, he wonders if he'll even experience any high from them.

Sherlock keeps rhythm effortlessly, his long thin fingers rapping against the wood of the bed's frame.

"_Life is very long when you're lonely_,"

The words wash over him, he arches to meet them, closing his eyes tightly. He surrenders completely to the sounds that fill him. He has turned up the stereo so loud that he can feel the song in his sternum. Beneath his skin his bones vibrate. His fingers stroke the hard wood of the bedside carefully. There's not much left of Sherlock Holmes.

They have begun to take effect on him.

His final song begins.

"_Oh mother, I can feel the sorrow falling over my head, and as I climb into an empty bed- Oh well, enough said_,"

Sherlock inhales sharply, his chest beginning to feel heavy and sink down into the mattress.

"_I know it's over still I cling, I don't know where else I can go,_"

_John Watson is never coming back._

_It's over._

_I will be gone soon._

_I will be gone soon._

Sherlock's body begins to shiver, as though the drug had travelled through his fingertips and climbed slowly into his heart. He breathes and whimpers as he turns onto his stomach. He begins to sob into his pillow. It's over.

"_You see the sea wants to take me, the knife wants to slit me, do you think you can help me_?"

The drugs had never done anything before. They made it easier to remain numb, to separate Sherlock from the other _real_ children. They made Sherlock feel slow. But now they quicken his heart, they make it wild and scared. He imagines it full of blood and screaming.

"_I know it's over, and it never really began. But in my heart, it was so real_,"

Sherlock is slipping away. He's having trouble remembering anything but the words of the song and John's face.

"_If you're so funny, why're you own tonight? And if you're so clever, then why are you on your own tonight? And if you're so very entertaining then why are you on your own tonight? And if you're so very good looking then why do you sleep alone tonight? I know, because tonight is just like any other night. That's why you're on your own tonight_,"

Sherlock is nearly screaming as he weeps.

The door is forced without Sherlock's notice.

"_Love is natural and real but not for such as you and I, my love_,"

He can hardly hear the words or feel his body as it is lifted from his bed.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," his hands are frantic. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" he is begging, he has never been more out of control. Sherlock grins.

"Are you scared?" He asks sleepily.

"Of course I'm-" Mycroft grimaces, "I called the ambulan-"

"Please, Mycroft, please don't," Sherlock whimpers. He can't move. He's so close.

Mycroft stands. and finds the bottles that had fallen from the bed. He inspects them quickly, leaving Sherlock motionless on the floor. Sherlock's limbs feel heavy. He wants to move. He's not sure what he would do if he could.

His song has ended, and as the paramedics arrive, he comes to the realization that he won't be dying today.

Not this day, anyway.


	6. There's nothing wrong

"Surely you've thought of it," his grandmother speaks in a low tone.

Sherlock hides just behind the slightly opened door.

_They're talking about me._

He strokes his long fingers against the grain of the doorframe as he listens.

"There is nothing _wrong_ with my boy," his mother says sternly. Sherlock's heart beats strangely in his chest.

"He tried to _kill_ himself less than a year ago," his grandmother's harsh voice grates him. "He's not even turned seventeen yet," she says. "And those- that- _delusion_ he had," Sherlock digs his nails into his skin.

"He's left," Mummy insists, he assumes there is a disapproving expression on his grandmother's face, as his mother says, "_It's_ been gone since before the incident," she says.

He can hear the clink of tea cups and the slight slurp of fluid through his grandmother's loose lips. His intestines burn in the interim.

"Has he made any friends?"

A pause.

"That couldn't be said, no," his mother says softly. "I don't think he's ever really tried," she notes, "He could fake it, his brother does," she says.

"But why not?"

"Well, I couldn't say," another sip of tea, this time his mother drinks. She swallows softly, but he can still hear her movements.

"Do you know that he can?"

"He used to- he was," she pauses, "With the boy, his imaginary friend," his grandmother must give her another disapproving look on the basis of her tone. "He-he was quite kind to _it_; Played games with it and spoke kindly to it," she says.

They are silent for a while and Sherlock slinks away, his chest hollow.

_I hate her._

_I hate her._

_I hate her._

_I hate her._

He slams his door.

* * *

><p>Curling onto his bed, he presses the needle into his vein and ejects the plunger. He closes his eyes and swallows, slowly removing the needle and lying it on his mattress.<p>

He leans back and allows the oblivion to storm his system. Sherlock feels electric, as though his entire flesh were made of circuitry. He believes this is what it's like to be beautiful.


	7. Just your illness

_a/n: My consumption of 'Oh, Brother Mine' by daretobeboring on Deviantart appears to have quite effected this chapter._

* * *

><p>Something warm is wrapped around his hand. It is slightly wet and moves against his skin. It moves without purpose or consideration, only the twitches of life beneath what Sherlock has come to understand is flesh. Sherlock makes a small noise as he awakens.<p>

Mycroft holds a small book in his free hand. By appearance he is reading, but he has kept quite meticulous note of his brother's state. He allows a smile to take his stoic countenance.

Sherlock clears his throat, "Mycroft?"

"Do you remember," Mycroft says instantly, looking into his brother's sleepy eyes. "Do you remember when you were five?" he continues and Sherlock groans.

"Ye-" Mycroft waves his hand in front of Sherlock's face.

"Don't speak," he commands. Sherlock is weak enough to obey. "When you were five we were at this lake, mummy was away, I'm not sure why, but you started for the water," Mycroft crosses his legs an closes his book. "You couldn't swim and I couldn't catch you," he places his book on the table beside him, releasing his brother's hand finally, placing it delicately onto the bed at his side. He strokes the bed rails and watches the monitor screens for a long while. The small beeps from the monitors are not soothing in any way. Sherlock's throat is dry, his stomach aches. He wonders how much he took to get here.

"You were struggling and I couldn't get to you," Mycroft says, "There was this boy; it happened so fast. I couldn't believe I couldn't get you," he clears his throat and sits forward, "But this boy, he was only a few years younger than me, but he saved you. He carried you to shore." He pauses, folds his hands across his knee.

"What's your point?" Mycroft glares at Sherlock.

"Isn't it obvious?" Mycroft sighs, "That boy, his name-"

"You knew?" Sherlock snarls.

"Sherlock, no, he's not the boy you knew," he shook his head, "He wasn't even a boy, just your illness," Sherlock glares.

"You know I'm not ill," Mycroft grins.

"Then what are you doing here?" he gestures.

Sherlock looks around vaguely, "How could you not tell me?" He doesn't have enough strength to summon the rage he feels. He is broken, as though his entire being has become nothing more or less than dust. His limbs feel as though they've withered off. He is the quintessence of abyss.

"What would it have done for you to know?" Mycroft asks, his voice is cold now. Sherlock breathes slowly, his eyes tracing his brother.

"I would have wanted to know that he was real," Sherlock says.

"He wasn't real as you knew him," Mycroft says, "He simply existed, but he was not yours."

Sherlock pauses, "He was never mine," he says quietly.

They avoid each other for a long while as Mycroft stands.

"I will never forgive you," Sherlock says.

Mycroft nods and flees the room. Sherlock is left to his own devices.


	8. Never a child

"I never heard his voice, so I had nothing to create from," he presses his fingers together and they crack in sequence.

"Oh, well, we certainly could create something here," the other boy says, leaning over to press a kiss to his incredibly pale throat.

"I don't believe that is feasible," Sherlock notes, holding the other boy's hips as he adjusts his head to allow his throat to be kissed quite unintelligently, "Not anything palpable, although certainly some chemical balances shall-" Sherlock's mouth is stopped by the other boy's abruptly.

It isn't as though Sherlock expects the other boy to be interested in what he says, but he could at least allow him to finish. Sherlock supposes he will take affection where he can get it; in drugs, stupid boys, and mummy.

The boy himself is of little interest to Sherlock. A repressed homosexual from a working class background. He studies hard and fucks harder. The latter is Sherlock's only concern. He focuses on the sensations lavished upon his skin and attempts to purge himself of all other thought. 

* * *

><p>"I can't imagine you were ever a child," John says, crossing his legs as he sips his tea softly. Sherlock leans forward and takes the tea cup that had just been placed there.<p>

"Can you not?" Sherlock clears his throat, resisting the urge to laugh.

John is silent in reply. They each drink from their tea simultaneously and smile as they each notice. The quietness between them is pleasant and calm. The air is only filled with Sherlock's buzzing.

Sherlock considers his next sentence carefully, "Your voice is really quite…nice," he says.

"Was that a compliment?"

"I suppose it was,"

John pauses, a small smile taking his countenance before falling fast. He watches Sherlock. "Thank you," he says finally.

"You're welcome," Sherlock says, placing his cup on the table.


End file.
